


Wandering with the Antipodes

by Suri



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suri/pseuds/Suri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Richard visits Australia.  Things do not go well.</p><p>[I have not made up the Australian Parliamentary language.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wandering with the Antipodes

The colonials in this great southern land had done very well for themselves. Their Parliament building was gleaming and modern. The Members had denied themselves nothing, it was plain to see. Surely they could spare a little of their wealth for their monarch?

True to form, though, the peasants were revolting.

“It's time we revisited the Republic debate! Past time!” yelled one.

King Richard, his royal ire aroused by this intemperate display, chid them – but lovingly, as a father his profligate children – for their meagre contribution to his Crown's expenses. 

“Do you dare to speak to your sovereign lord thus? Alas! Most dear subjects, how comes it that you, who delve rare earths, and gold, and divers precious gems from your red soil, give nothing of this wealth in taxes to your sovereign? For I have a myriad of expenses in the upkeep of my state.”

“Your spend your own money and come here expecting more? Are you away with the fairies?”

“Order! Order!”

That was the Speaker. She was ignored by the baying Members. In this, at least, Richard and parliament were at one.

“So where's the money gone, then?” shouted another Member.

“I must defend my realm - defend my honour and my God-given right.”

“So? It's no business of ours. We don't give a shit about your wars!” Cries of agreement from around the chamber.

“Should my throne fall, it will be your business! The well-spring and source of government – of order, and peace within the realm, is dear to maintain, and dear to us withal!”

The hubbub died down for a moment, almost as if they were trying to understand what he had said. Then it broke out again.

“No wars that I can see here,” came another voice. “We maintain our peace without your help!” This was not apparent to Richard. In fact, Parliament seemed about to turn into a battlefield, but perhaps it would not be politic to say so.

“I have wars with Scotland and with Ireland,” he replied with dignity, trying to see who had addressed him thus. The Speaker appeared to have given up the fight to maintain order.

“Ireland! Better not go to Glenrowan, mate! Ned Kelly might shoot ya! How good's your armour?”

Howls of laughter. While it was subsiding, Richard mustered his arguments.

“These are not intemperate demands. I have raised revenue at home. But the poll tax was defeated, small sums though I required of my ungrateful subjects -”

“You can take your poll tax and shove it! And your mining tax too!”

It was hopeless. Richard, bowing his head sorrowfully, departed the chamber (pretending not to hear the cry of “Gutless prick!” that followed him) and exited the parliament building. 

Outside, the sun beat down, fiery golden upon his golden head, illuming his gorgeous robes of state – but they were hot and heavy upon him. The birds of this land, raucous as the dishonourable Members, clad in colours brighter than his, brighter than any jester's, screeched mockingly at him. Further off, in an old tree, a drabber bird laughed and laughed – at him, at God's anointed!

With a heavy heart he drove in state to the airport, where his private jet awaited, a thing of great beauty with its gold livery and angel motif. A crowd of menials watched as he prepared to depart their soil forever.

Magnanimous as always, he waved farewell. 

“You have not treated your King with that tender regard with which you ought to use him,” he admonished them, “but still, I give you my blessing, and the love which you withhold from me. Farewell, my people!”

He swept up the stairs and into the jet. The door closed behind him.

On the tarmac, the baggage handlers looked at each other and laughed. Only one comment was possible, and they made it in unison.

“Whingeing Pom!”


End file.
